Harry Potter and the Relics of Merlin
by The Last True Hero
Summary: Harry Potter is the brother to the Boy-Who-Lived; when a crazed attempt to step of his brother's shadow takes an unexpected turn, Harry must confront demons within himself to save the day and prevent Voldemort accquiring the mythical Relics of Merlin...
1. Wannabe Hero

_**Disclaimer: **__I do not own Harry Potter or any other affiliated trademark. It is the property of J.K Rowling, Warner Bros. and whoever the hell else._

_**A/N:**__ Yes I know, bad idea to start yet another story when I've already got four or so on the go already. But hey, it's better to write anything rather than nothing and I'm working on a system to try and rotate between stories. It's a BWL with a plotline that deviates from the books but includes hallows and horcruxes, although the latter will be wrapped up early on. Harry in this is badass and brilliant, but he has some glaring character flaws as well._

**Summary:** Harry Potter. The brother to the infamous Boy-Who-Lived. A desperate bid to step out of his brother's shadow will set in motion events that will determine the fate of the war and the world itself. But not all enemies can be fought and the demons and vices within Harry could be his undoing.

* * *

_**Harry Potter and the Relics of Merlin**_**  
**_Chapter One – Wannabe Hero_

_Maybe a real hero's the last one to hear about it  
~ Wylie Burp_

_I have taken Rachel Fudge. I have taken her because I can. I have taken her to prove a point: that no matter where you hide, no matter how far you run, I will always find you. If you desire her safe return, Jack Potter or Harry Potter shall come to me. They shall come alone. Failure to do so will result in Rachel's demise. _

_You have two hours._

I was insane.

I had to be. Only a madman would answer the call of another madman. Only someone completely lacking in both sanity and basic common sense would embark on this ill-considered path. My compassionate heart had overruled my head and senses and forced me to embark on what would surely be a suicide mission. But why had I come?

Because I'm Harry bloody Potter, and that's what I do. A Hero complex, or to some a "saving people thing", a misguided sense of compassion and heroic naivety all came together to make me who I am: a wannabe hero, struggling needlessly against the dark and the shadows because I wanted to, because I could. Because maybe, just maybe, I could be the hero for once, and not my brother.

My twin brother, to be precise. Jack Potter, the esteemed Boy-Who-Lived, the destroyer of a Dark Lord at the incredible age of one year old on a chilly Halloween evening, so many years ago. Since Lord Voldemort's return a few years ago, Jack had once again become a beacon of hope in the dark times that followed, held aloft on a pedestal forged by those who believed him to be capable of the feat twice-over. The so-called Chosen One. And there was a modicum of truth in such almost-illogical fanaticism; He was the child of prophecy, a prophecy which decreed that one of three children would bring about Lord Voldemort's fall.

One had been Jack.

One had been Neville Longbottom.

The third had been myself.

And out of the three of us, Lord Voldemort had given the terrifying burden to Jack to shoulder, to struggle with, when he attacked our family that same Halloween night. Our parents had left us in the loving care of one Peter Pettigrew. He had been an agent of the Dark Lord; lacking the Gryffindor heart of his close friends, he offered us children to gain Voldemort's hopeful favour. But when the time eventually came for Voldemort to perform the deed, Peter refused, having finally found the courage a battered old wizard's hat had seen in him so long ago. He died to protect us, and found absolution for his sins in his final, heroic last act.

Voldemort had gone on to turn his wand of us, intending to end our lives, and end two of the three threats to him. But when he summoned up his Killing Curse, some force, be it ancient magic, a divine force or simply Lady Luck's treasured whim, his magic was reflected, turned against him and tore him from his body and doomed him to a state of life as little more than a mere shade for more than a decade. Jack was hailed a hero, an icon, a symbol that the dark days were over and an age of peace would reign. They forever cherished him as the Boy-Who-Lived, remembered by his amazing scar in the shape of a serpentine 'S', a lasting testament to his amazing feat.

No one remembered that I too bore a scar.

Years passed, and we grew up with our family and friends. Jack had fame, he was popular and loved by all. And no matter how hard they tried to be fair, no matter how much they tried to show love equally, James and Lily Potter ultimately couldn't help but favour Jack more. He was confident, his love of Quidditch and mischief allowed the fatherly bond to form with ease while I became engrossed with books and studying. Lily did the best she could to make me feel equal, but it was obvious to all with eyes that Jack was easier to bond with, to have fun with and so others gravitated towards him. I loved flying too, but I was too scared to speak up, too scared that I would be seen as a copycat, jealous of the brother's talent. Maybe I was.

Then the time came for us to leave the nest and go to school, to join our fellow students under the auspices of the great Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Jack of course went to Gryffindor, the ancestral house of Potters and the home of the brave and the bold. I went to the more restrained Ravenclaw, where wit and wisdom were the most desired traits. My first four years at the prestigious school alternated between bouts of contentment and tired adventuring; magical stones and hidden chambers and snakes and dragons and all sorts of monsters permeated those years.

When Voldemort returned, so did the fear and the uncertainty that had plagued the country during the last war. The governance machine struggled to retain control as attacks increased, and more and more were killed. In a bid to take the public's mind off the war against the enemy in the shadows, they resurrected an age-old tradition: the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Three schools would compete in a bid to win the illustrious Tri-Wizard cup. But Voldemort used even this to his advantage, and ensured my entry despite the restrictions and forced me to compete. It had been a devious ruse to lure me to him, to deliver me into his crutches as an ace card he could use against Dumbledore and Jack. However, I managed to escape –barely – and left his plot in tatters.

But now he's tried a similar trick, and on my fifteenth birthday no less. He sent his servants to the Minister for Magic's home and absconded with the daughter Rachel in the night, with the agreement of her safe return on the arrival of myself or my brother. But Dumbledore had been insistent that Jack couldn't go; Jack wasn't ready yet to face him in combat, he was needed alive, and it would be folly to send him to die at the Dark Lord's hand, a lamb to the proverbial slaughter.

It didn't occur to anyone to place the same restriction on me.

And so, I had answered his summons, without the Order's knowledge, and found a simple portkey waiting to whisk me away in a flash of blue and deposit me in Lord Voldemort's fortress keep. A small castle somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, if I had to venture a tentative guess. It was of course hidden under a vast multitude of protective wards and concealment canopies. No one would find it unless specifically invited. Which made coming here all the more insane, since it meant there was no hope of anyone coming to rescue me. If they weren't going to come for the Minister's own daughter, there wasn't a hope in hell of them coming for me.

But hey, Harry bloody Potter, remember? Wannabe hero and all that jazz.

Volemort's fortress, or lair, or castle or whatever the hell you wished to call it was a building of stone; a circular dome with three spires, surrounded by a twenty foot stone wall, rising and falling with the hills, save for a gap where the boundary was defined by a body of water – a lake. The wall of course was merely pretence; no one would ever find the blasted thing unless Voldemort desired it, much less manage to force entry.

Voldemort of course, had gone for dramatic flair. He sat in the highest room in the tallest tower – pretentious twat – and I stood outside said room, in a dank corridor steeped in shadows save for the pitiful light given off by wall-mounted torches. The door was ornate wood – yew, like his wand – and furnished into a shiny bronze. Despite their immense size, they were charmed to be light. If I had to guess why, it would so that Voldemort could gather his Death Eaters here and leave them to stew in their trepidation and uncertainly before swinging open the doors with commanding force. Keep 'em in line by making yourself seem bigger than you are. Although, it seemed for tonight that his minions had been blocked from seeing the show. Obviously didn't want me roughed up.

That told me two things.

One: Voldemort didn't want me dead outright. That was good.

Two: Voldemort wanted something in particular. That was never, ever good.

And so, with a resolve and confidence I didn't feel, I pressed my hands against the wood and applied force and sauntered in with a smirk and a swagger. The room was like an anti-dungeon, and it could have been mistaken for one had I not been on the top floor of a tower rather than the bottom. Like the rest of his fortress it was dark grey stone barely lit from torches burning with green fire.

Rachel herself lay bound and gagged in the corner. Terrified and alone, I could see the hope in her eyes, which turned to confusion as she wondered why the other twin had come to save the day. A quick glance told me she was unharmed save for cuts and bruises obtained in the struggle to kidnap her and reddening skin where the magical bonds pressed a little too deep into the skin.

Lord Voldemort made for a much more grandiose and impressive figure. Lounged on a throne of ivory marble that contrasted sharply with his flowing black robes that pooled around him like fluid. His long thin fingers played idly with his bone-white wand and blood red eyes in reptilian slits looked up sharply as I entered. A ghost of a smile curved his lips in silent recognition.

"Harry, Harry, Harry, I knew it would be you to come." Voldemort drawled, his voice barely above a whisper and laced with malice. "You have too much compassion in your heart."

"'Sup Tom?" I replied mildly, scrutinising the room in apparent boredom. "How's life since the graveyard?"

"It has been eventful." Voldemort admitted, lowering himself into the banter. "I hear the Ministry grows quite desperate to stop me."

"Yeah they are." I snorted in amusement. The damned fools. "Fudge has his head-"

I shut up when I remember who was in the room. My face tightened into a mask of seriousness, replacing the one of false bravado I had worn to conceal my fear.

Onto business.

"You wanted one, you got one." I paused. He had asked for one of us, and had gotten the rotten end of the deal. "Now let her go."

Now, people like it when things go to plan. When a terrorist says he's going to blow up a church, no one panics, because it's all part of the plan. No one panics when things go to plan. It's when they don't that the fear and confusion sets in. The same goes for people. When people act like they should, no one panics. When Lord Voldemort says he'll come to kill you, you don't panic (Okay, that's a _bit_ of a stretch) and you accept it as part of the plan. So it was a rather large and disconcerting surprise when Voldemort's lips turned up in a monster's attempt at a smile and snapped his fingers. Rachel disappeared in a swirl of magic, to be deposited in the main atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Lucky her.

Lord Voldmort had kept his word. In the heartbeat of an instant, the world had been flipped upside down.

_Lord Voldemort had kept his word._

Shit.

"Consider it a show of good faith." Voldemort said, "A token of goodwill."

Goodwill for what? I really didn't like where this was going. I had come here half expecting to die, but now I was starting to think I had gotten myself into something bigger than I could handle.

"For?"

Voldemort stood up from his throne and began to pace along the cold flagstone floor. Part of me wanted to pull out my wand, aim for the kill but I stayed my hand knowing it would be a fruitless endeavour. Wait for the moment. I'd have to keep him talking until then.

"Harry, you are far more interesting than your brother." Voldemort murmured, deep in thought. "He is a mere enemy, a weapon to be used against me. But you…you are an _equal._"

Equal? Bullshit. Jack had gotten all the good genes. I could barely manage a patronus charm. Every situation with Voldemort I've had I got out with a lucky throw of the dice or someone else coming in at the opportune moment. Another reason why Jack was more powerful than me. He usually managed to handle the situations himself.

"You've got me mistaken for someone else." I snort, all the while searching for a way out.

Voldemort merely inclined his head. "Have I?"

"Yes."

"Interesting. I was under the impression that you were the boy my spies told me snuck out of Hogwarts many a time last year to sneak away to other countries. That you were the one that fought me in the graveyard. That you were the one who thirsts for knowledge in Hogwarts yet hides it from his peers."

I blinked. How had he known that? His spies must've been good indeed. Dumbledore knew of all that too, of course he had to. Nothing got by him. Apparently the same could be said for Voldemort.

The dark lord turned towards me. "I alone see the truth, Harry. The truth of all things."

I raised an inquisitive eyebrow. I had always wondered what made Voldemort tick exactly. "What truth is that then?"

"Humans are weak." Voldemort hissed, a few green sparks exploding from the still-held wand, "They squabble and squander away such potential."

He paused, and began to pace towards me. "We need unity, stability to achieve our true potential. The world as we know it is fragmented, broken. I wish to fix it."

"Control it, you mean." I retort. "One leader, am I right?"

Of course I was. How could I not be? "A unified humanity!"

"With everyone at your feet." The goblins, the elves, the muggles and mudbloods; anyone and anyone cursed with the luck of not being part of his master race.

"A necessary sacrifice."

Something stirred within me. Defiance, hot and true. The smirk and swagger returned, and I turned my ire upon Voldemort. "But here's the kicker, Tommy-boy, you're not one of them. You're a half-blood; so why do you wish to see the purebloods rule?"

I didn't have to ask. Not really. I could see the simple truth of things, even if others wouldn't. Voldemort had been born of both worlds, and despised himself for it. Hated himself because he could never become what he aspired to be.

Surprisingly, Voldemort gave no heed to my ill-thought taunts and merely replied: "Because I see that they are the best way, the only way to ensure stability. The pure shall completely rule the weak."

"Doubt it." I snort. Voldemort would never have control, not the way he so envisioned. The world would become a lawless desolate land held in the infernal grip of eternal war as the defiant and the dead-to-be fools fought on, raging against the night. He wouldn't win, save for the sheer destruction he would inevitably cause. No empire would rise from the ashes of his deluded war.

"We could rule together, Harry." Ah, there it was. "Build the world into a true utopia."

I laughed and sat down onto Voldemort's hard marble throne. "Why the hell would I serve you?"

The bastard had tried to kill me enough times. The only trust I could place in Voldemort would be a knife in the back one day. Far from enough to build an empire on.

"You and I are not so different." Voldemort murmured. "We both thirst for knowledge, we both aspire to something greater." A pause. "You wish to step out of your brother's shadow, to be someone of import. Join me, and everything you desire can be yours."

"Hell no."

Voldemort turned, somehow managed to look regretful. "Will you not reconsider?"

Hmm… "Still no."

_I am about to die_.

The thought came with surprising ease. I was not afraid, not scared of the next to come. The thought was surprisingly pleasing. I stood up with lazy ease and looked Voldemort in the eye.

"Then I am truly sorry." Voldemort raised his wand. "_Avada Kedavra_."

And the world went to black.

* * *

_We're just getting started…_

* * *

Well the afterlife is…clean, if I had to call it anything. The simple white of the ethereal world around me made for a sharp contrast with the morbid castle I had left behind. It was just as deserted though. The place vaguely reminded me of a train station of sorts, of King's Cross station in old London town. No trains that I could see though.

Where the fuck was everyone? Maybe this wasn't the afterlife at all…

I realised there was a figure approaching from the white. Dumbledore? No, but close, so very close. A wizened old man with a flowing silvery beard and ancient eyes tinged with weariness. The long white robes he wore were indistinguishable from the world around him. Looks like someone had ripped Gandalf the White straight from Tolkien's _Lord of the Rings_.

"Er...hi?" I call towards the figure. There was a vague sense of recognition here, a notion that I should know him, but for my life I could not put name to face. Or the beard.

"Am I dead?" I try again.

The wizard, or warlock, or sorcerer or whatever he wished to be ignored me, opting simply to sit down on a bench of what could've been white plastic. Finally, he turned his attention towards me, appraising me. He patted the space beside him.

"Sit."

And I did.

"You are arrogant, deluded, consumed in notions of grandeur and heroism. A fool in the face of destiny."

Gee thanks. Asshole.

"And yet," the old man whispered, "Our only hope."

"I think you got the wrong Potter." I laugh hollowly. "Jack deals with all that prophecy stuff."

Also, I'm dead now. Kinda makes things a tad award.

"You are not dead." The old man replied, "Not yet. There is still much to be done, and circumstance demands your consideration of returning."

Huh? "I could go back?"

"If you so desire."

I considered. Really there was no choice at all. "What's the catch?"

The old man laughed, and stroked his magnificent beard. He'd be pulling out the pipe next. "No catch, but a warning."

"Oh?"

The wizard's face turned grave. "Voldemort seeks old relics, old objects of power. Should he succeed, your world will fall to darkness."

Oh great. "Didn't I just say Jack deals with all the prophecy crap?"

"There is no destiny, my son, save the one we make." The old man retorted, "Your delusions of inferiority will be your undoing. You cannot let them stay your hand."

Yeah. I'll get right on that…

"Who are you, anyway?" I probe, "Do I know you?"

"You should."

Right. I wasn't getting an answer, was I? "Okay. Those object things?"

"Fate will limit my ability to offer aid, but they are objects most powerful. They belonged to the most powerful wizard of ancient history."

I frown. Most powerful wizard? "You mean the relics of Merlin? No one even knows what they are."

I thought blossomed in my head. Wizened old man, relics of Merlin…no, it couldn't be. "Are you-?"

"Who I am matters not." The old man cut off tritely. "The question is: who are you?"

I'm Harry bloody Potter, mate. Kickass magical extraordinaire, pretty good on a broom, and Lord Voldemort's official pain in the ass. Give me my wand and a bottle of scotch and I'll paint the town red. Well, not really. Not too keen on scotch. Cola, maybe.

"I'm whoever I chose to be."

The old man chuckled at that – could it really be Merlin? "Perhaps. We shall see."

I look around, surveying the white expanse. "What happens now?"

Merlin looked thoughtful, if the way he scratched his beard was any indication. "You go back, or you go on."

"I'll wake up in Voldemort's fortress wont I?" That wouldn't end well.

"Yes."

Shit. Nothing to be done for it I suppose. Just had to reap the whirlwind and hope for the best. Not once did the thought of simply leaving, of simply going on cross my mind. I could've. After all, a train station has to have trains right? And I'd be willing to bet I'd find one, just one, waiting to carry me on. On to the next great adventure as a wise old man once put it.

"Fuck it." And I laughed. A shaky laugh, not of joy or humour but something akin to withered fear.

"Good luck, Harry Potter." The old man stood up and began to walk back into the white. "And happy birthday."

And the world slowly faded to back.

Again.

* * *

_Stop the presses. I ain't quite dead yet._

* * *

Cold flagstone pressed into the right side of my face as I awoke in Voldemort's chamber. My glasses had been skewed from the fall to the floor and I could hear the whispers and shouts of Death Eaters as they tended to their master.

"I do not require aid, _Bellatrix_." came Voldemort irritated snarl from somewhere to my right – just out of sight. Somehow, his killing curse had knocked him on his ass as well. "Someone check if the boy is dead."

No one moved. No one dared. Then, finally, I could sense movement to my left as one Lucius Malfoy came to check for a pulse and an impossible heartbeat. Out of their line of sight, my hand crept towards my pocket in search of the ever faithful holly and phoenix feather wand that would be there, and for an item with which to create an opportunity for escape.

Lucius leaned over me. Time to roll. Literally. I rolled over and raised my wand, aimed at Lucius' heart. He barely had time to react before my yell of "_Stupefy!_" knocked him out cold.

All hell broke loose.

The assorted Death Eaters lunged for wand or weapon, but before they had a chance to strike I flung a coal-like rock at the floor. The Instant Darkness Powder reacted instantly, dousing the room in thick arid smog that could not be seen through. My the time they were able to clear it, I was gone.

* * *

_And so it comes to this. I see the truth of you, Harry Potter._

_I see your lust for adventure, your desire for glory._

_Mostly I just see loneliness._

* * *

I sprinted through the dark corridors of the fortress, the Death Eaters in tow. They cast all manner of magic to halt my escape. Jets of green and red and sickly yellow whizzed and screamed past me, impacted on the wall and tore out chunks of stone. Occasionally I spun to return a curse of my own but mostly I ran. Ran for my life, oh yes.

Not the first time. Sure as hell wouldn't be the last.

I ducked left, into a side-corridor that I figured would take me towards the lakeside of the fortress. There was no hope for apparation or a portkey here; my egress would be of the slow, physical variety. Perhaps a boat.

A Reductor Curse missed my head by a scant few inches and blew a hole in the wall ahead. Below I could see the pier that fed into the lake. I did something foolish there, my latest in a long, long list of insane acts.

I jumped through the hole.

As I plummeted towards the hard ground, I spun my wand in complex patterns, whispering words of magic. "_Arresto Momentum_, _Spongify_."

My descent slowed, and while I still hit the ground hard, I took the blow and rolled to transfer the energy to the ground. The wind was knocked out of me, but the adrenaline and the potent cocktail of fear and determination kicked in and got me to my feet. Above, some Death Eaters stood at the hole in the tower, hurling what curses they could for all the good it would do them. They couldn't hit me so far away. A cheeky salute, and I was running again.

Always running, me.

I reached the water's edge and slid down the incline to where the boathouse stood, rackety and wooden. No boats inside, just a few mounds of thick rope, an anchor and a number of rusted old lockers. Typical. I could hear the approach of Death Eaters.

I knew there wasn't a chance for me to try swimming away, so I desperately began to tear apart the lockers in search of an escape method. The first two held nothing, but the third I managed to strike gold with. Inside were a number of broomsticks. They were old, the magic in them fading away to almost nothing but one would do. I took one – an old _Sliver Arrow_ model, older than I was – and as an afterthought, set fire to the rest. It wouldn't do for them to follow.

I ran outside the boathouse to the open pier, and mounted the old broom just as the Death Eaters arrived. I smirked as waved as I took off into the sky, the broomstick baring me aloft to freedom.

When I moved through the wards, the magic rubbed raw against my skin, but the broom didn't falter and shot through like an arrow – heh. Get it? Sliver Arrow? – through a thin shield. I shot off away from the fortress as fast as I could. I didn't have a clue where I was going; once I was content with my distance from Voldemort I would orient myself with the _Point Me_ Spell and try to make my way home.

Technically, I had some experience with apparition, but I wasn't particularly willing to try such a large distance without a license. Under-age magic laws and all that. Not that those laws had ever stopped me before, but I was always wary of splinching myself. I'd only try if Voldemort himself came after me.

_Speak of the devil._ A sharp splinter of pain tore into my scar and I looked frantically across the grey skyline for a sign of the snake-faced monster or his Death Eaters. I watched with fascinated horror as the clouds themselves shifted, reformed, contracting and flexing into the gigantic image of a human skull. The Dark Mark.

The mouth – the maw would be more appropriate – opened up wide and jet black trails of smoke lanced out of the mouth where the tongue should have been. Death Eaters using Wind Travel; Voldemort had developed it during the last war. Wizards borne about naught but the air and wind.

My scar stung, but the pain was not so severe as I had come to associate with Voldemort's physical proximity. He was angry without a doubt, but he had yet to join the hunt himself. For now I merely had to contend with his Death Eaters.

For now.

* * *

_**A/N: **__Just a couple points I want to raise, before you ask me in the reviews (of which there better be many…) Harry isn't reliable as a narrator, hence why some of what he says is contradictory._

_1: First of all, the family situation; James and Lily were good parents, but Jack simply took up more of their time. Jack himself isn't one of those "asshole" Wrong-Boy-Who-Lived; He's got his head on straight, he's hardworking in the face of his destiny and is pretty good in a fight. Doesn't mean Harry's not jealous. Dumbledore isn't manipulative beyond what goes on in the books themselves._

_2: I've actually tried to come up with a sensible reason why Jack would be chosen over Harry. Jack has detectable dark magic traces in him, which specialist wizards (Dumbledore wouldn't be stupid enough to make the choice himself) highlighted and speculated meant a part of Voldemort transferred to him. Harry has the Horcrux, but because he wasn't actually made into one and just a piece of Voldemort's soul latches onto Harry's, and the aforementioned specialists can't detect soul magic in play, so it slips them by. Therefore Harry looks like a normal kid while Jack looks like he's got some sort of magical transfer._

_3: How school events play out: They both have the troll, Jack gets seeker in first-year, Harry gets the Stone and deals with the Chamber of Secrets. Voldemort returns in Third-Year instead of fourth, and in fourth-year the Tournament still happens and Harry is declared a Champion as part of a plan for Voldemort to get to Jack. Jack himself was specifically not allowed to enter on grounds of his additional training and therefore got rejected when Crouch Jr. tried to enter him. Harry and Voldemort fight in the Graveyard. Jack has several other adventures, including Death Eater attacks and the like._

_4: Wind Travel is supposed to be the "cloud" apparation from the films._

_As always, Read review and whatever else._

_- The Last True Hero_


	2. To Wish Upon A Star

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't know what to put, so I put this here._

_**A/N:**__ Annnd, we're back!_

* * *

_**Harry Potter and the Relics of Merlin  
**__Chapter Two – To Wish Upon A Star_

On the edge of a peaceful little town called Ottery St. Catchpole, there was a home unlike most others. It was run down, shabby, and to some, dilapidated. Over the years, the Burrow had been the heart of a dozen renovations; more and more rooms and floors had been bolted on, and the impossible weight was held up only by virtue of magic. The crooked, homely building was home to a large family called the Weasley's; though tonight by various circumstances, only the youngest child was home.

Ginny Weasley sat at her bedroom window, wishing upon a star. She was beset by voices only she could hear; the voice of a monster she knew too well, whose memory along was enough to send shivers down her spine and make her skin crawl. The voice belonged to Tom Marvolo Riddle, the dead man from a magic diary who had attempted to ensnare her soul nearly three years ago. Nearly succeeded, too. The diary-man had taken her to the lost Chamber of Secrets in Hogwarts, hidden away for fifty years. He would've drained her precious life force away had it not been for an unknown hero. He – it could've been a she too, but Ginny felt it had been a man – and found them in the chamber and slew the ancient Basilisk that had guarded it for a millennium. Her knight in shining armour, the stuff of little girl's dreams and children's fairytales. They had never discovered the hero's identity, and Dumbledore and the Aurors who had investigated the chamber afterwards believed that he had been poisoned in the fight. They said he had to have died from it.

Ginny didn't believe it.

She _knew_ her hero hadn't died. She could feel it. And so she wished upon a star in the sky, hoping for her hero to return and banish the shadows within her head and within her heart and allow her to be free from the dark memories. It was a childish notion, a make-believe fantasy; yet she had clung to the hope with romantic passion, and it helped her heal when the Healers at St. Mungo's could not. Over time, the hope had faded, the light those dreams within her losing steadily to the dark stain lead by Riddle. She was steadily growing duller too, though she hid it from those around her. She had been fine up until a year ago; the Healers and therapists had helped her move on, helped her realise it wasn't her fault and that there was nothing she could have done differently, and helped her move past her nightmares. But around a year ago, it had all coming seeping back; the pain, the fear and the memories. They began to pollute her once more, defiling what little innocence about the world that had remained.

And so, despite the fact her cherished hero would never come, would never lead her out of the dark, she lived in hope. And every time she saw a star she wished for her hero's return.

_I wish he would come back. I wish he would help me escape the memories. I wish he would show me how to live again._

_I wish he would fight the monsters._

A resounding crash echoed in the cool night, startling Ginny from her window-side vigil. She yelped and almost tumbled from her seat and onto the floor and only steadied herself through luck. Shakily, she stood up and inched her hand across the desk towards her wand. Pressing her face to the glass she was just able to make out the ruined heap of broken wood that had once been a shed. Something had crashed into it.

Ginny frowned. What the hell could it have been? The wards were intact, she had checked not half an hour ago; so it couldn't be anything imbued with dark magic and nothing with a destructive capacity, but the thing had demolished the shed utterly. From within the wreckage, Ginny could hear a stifled noise.

"Ow..."

* * *

_Thirty minutes earlier…_

The trails of black smoke followed me across the night sky, weaving and dancing behind me. They hadn't made any attempt to cause me harm yet, and seemed content to stalk me while they waited for the moment to pounce.

I had been flying for hours, and by my own reckoning I had passed the border into England. Not that much longer to go to reach Potter Manor, but the strain and exhaustion was getting to me. The cold night air stung in my eyes and raised the hairs that lay on bare skin. Cramp and muscle fatigue had long since settled in and it took every ounce of determination and energy in my too-skinny body to stay on the ancient broom. In all likelihood, if the Death Eaters didn't kill me soon I'd end up falling off and smacking into the hard green ground far below in a broken and bloodied mess and my limbs scattered over the English countryside.

So yeah. Head in the game, to turn a phrase.

A lance of anger and pain tore through the lightning bolt scar upon my forehead, by way of the tenuous connection to Voldemort I scarcely understood. I had learned Occulmency to a degree enough to keep him out of my memories, but I had no hope of stopping him from sending over emotions, thoughts, visions. The lance of pain was accompanied by two words- a command.

_Kill him._

Well fuck.

The smoke-trails changed instantly. They congealed into recognisably human forms, though still half-mist and soaring on the winds. The black robes billowed and shifted between solid fabric and gaseous mist and the steel masks the Death Eaters wore could have been mistaken for stars when the moonlight caught them. The dark wizards could cast spells in the transition state while retaining the power of flight. They could move faster than what the crappy old broom could manage, and could perform manoeuvres and magic I couldn't.

Double fuck.

Seven Death Eaters against little old me on a piece of shit broomstick that would be dead before the night's end. My too-numb fingers slipped off the broom's shaft and snaked into my pocket in search of my wand. I fumbled around desperately trying to get it out, and nearly had a heart attack when it almost slipped out of my grasp to plummet back down to terra firma. I couldn't aim for shit with the cold gnawing into my bones, but I'd be dead by the Death Eater's hands if I didn't at least _try_ to fight back.

Quadruple fuck.

This couldn't possibly end well.

The first lance of deadly purple light – _Heart-Stopping Curse. Nasty_ – arced past my ear and missed by scant inches. The opening shot had been fired, and the game was afoot. All too soon I was trading jets of spell light with the Death Eaters, in a dozen shades of red and green and blue. I was at a major disadvantage – I wasn't particularly mobile on the broom, and I couldn't fight and see where I was going at the same time. For every spell I fired off I instantly had to put up a shield for the half-dozen I got in return. A Killing Curse, two Incineration Curses and a scarily close Bone-Breaking Hex made up one such salvo. A Laceration Hex slipped past my shield and bit into my leg – not too deep, but it would need stitches.

"_Stupefy_!" I yell out through the pain. "_Protego_!"

The stunner managed to catch one of the Death Eaters and send him spiralling towards the hard green ground below – the first to go down. That still left another seven though, and I knew that Voldemort would be joining the fight shortly. I would've – should've? – tried to apparate away, but I lacked the talent or drive to try and do it mid-air and with a rather constant distraction.

There was some sort of city in the distance. I couldn't see any landmarks or distinctive locales to discern the specific one, but it was large and obviously muggle. A sea of granite and glass towers containing businesses and apartment complexes and markets. I conjured a cloud of thick black smoke to distract the Death Eater's from following me. I weighed up my very few and probably illogical options. I could continue on and try to outfox the Death Eaters across the open countryside. Bad idea; too little cover. Option two: try and head into the city, where I could use the buildings for breathing space. Couple problems with a that, namely the masses of muggles that would inevitably see the dogfight. The Ministry would go spare.

Out here, in the open, there was no cover in any direction. No way for me to get out of their line of sight. For all intents and purposes, I was playing by the Death Eater's rules. I had to change the game, had to make them play by my rules; get the advantage and make them work to get at me. That mean heading into the city, where I decided how we moved through it – Statue of Secrecy be damned.

Almost as if to cement the plan once and for all, a splinter of pain echoed in my scar. A herald of a new player. Lord Voldemort had finally decided to join the fight. He rode the wind on a trail of black smoke like those of his followers, but it billowed far larger and more brilliantly as if to show that his power far exceeded that of his minions.

"_HARRY POTTER!_"

Shiiitt. To the city!

"_Avada Kedrava_!"

Allonsy! I dived down to avoid the green light and raced towards the city. I couldn't really tell if it was London or Birmingham. I couldn't see anything like Big Ben or the Blackpool Tower. Part of me was inclined to go with Manchester. Not that it made a lick of shit though, I was still gonna blast through it with a bunch of insane dark wizards and probably demolish half of it.

I ended up following a motorway into the city, Dark Lord in two. Within minutes we were ducking and diving between the buildings; confused muggles watched from behind their curtains as we rocketed past. The Death Eaters retreated shortly after to allow Voldemort to continue the chase alone. Every now and then the shockwaves he left in his wake would be enough to shatter windows.

"Give it up Tommy!" I yell over the howling winds and engine motors below. "You can't catch me!"

A sharp left and a deep dive saw me zig-zagging between cars and bikes and buses on a congested main street. A jet of violent green smashed into the ground beside me and gouged the roadside. Another blast of blue caved in the hood of a small sliver saloon and launched it into a spin that saw it collide with another car.

"You cannot escape me forever, Potter!"

"I'm doing a pretty good job so far!" I call back cheerfully. Fuck being normal, being boring. The thrill of the chase had finally settled in, the ecstasy induced by the adrenaline flowing in the bloodstream. Tell me there's something better than the lure of adventure; the delight of excitement.

We darted between buildings, dodging between the grey and glass. Voldemort hurled spell after spell which I managed to block.

"_Fracteossis_!" Voldemort roared. I couldn't stop it entirely and a sliver of blue slipped past my shield net and smacked into me. Not powerful enough to hurt, but the kinetic energy was strong enough to make me slide off the broom. I managed to hold on with my wand-free hand, so I was now hurtling along five hundred feet above the ground hanging from a worn and weary Sliver Arrow – now with smoking bristles from one too many spells.

Yeah. Fuck.

Voldemort's continued assaults prevented me from climbing back up – my wand-hand was too busy deflecting his monstrous array of curses and hexes. The Arrow wobbled and jinked as I tried to control in a way beyond what the instructions said. Who needs 'em, anyway? Not me. Rules are for wussies. I looked around searching for an opportunity; a chance to affect an amazing escape from Voldemort's clutches like a deus ex machina in a bad action movie. I spied a set of power cables, stretched out high above a street. Five of the thick black cables hung between a set of buildings – perfect.

I raised my wand towards them. "_Diffindo_!"

They spilt apart in a fantastic shower of electric blue sparks with a crackle of thunder. The cables spun and flapped wildly, arcs of electricity leaping between the gaps. I was quick enough to pull the broom down and slide underneath the whirling cables. Voldemort was not. He hurled into the maelstrom, and his inhumane scream rang out as the thousands of volts coursed through his body. I couldn't hear the tell-tale crack as he disapparated away.

With the threat gone, I was able to try and clamber back on to the broom-

"SHIT!"

I had to pull myself up closer to the broomstick as a pointed weathervane zipped past underneath, narrowly missing some very important anatomy. I breathed out a very shaky sigh, and then managed to climb onto the broom properly.

And then the broom started to wobble.

* * *

To say that Ginny was confused was an understatement. Harry Potter had crashed into her back garden – Ginny winced when she realised how that sounded – and demolished the family shed on what had once been an ancient Silver Arrow. The brother to the Boy-Who-Lived now lay sprawled in a heap of wood and garden tools, clothes tattered and bloodstained. There was a groan, and slowly the boy began to stir. Ginny raised her wand as Harry came to awareness. She wasn't stupid.

"Why is there wood being pointed at me?" He asked groggily. "Weasley?"

"Ginny." She corrected mildly. "What the hell happened?"

Harry shook his head in an attempt to clear it. "Uhh…broomstick, Rachel Fudge…Voldemort…it was a long few hours."

Ginny cocked an eyebrow. What the hell was he on about? "Okay then."

"Yeahh…" He groaned, and tried to pull himself into a sitting position. He managed it eventually and examined the extent of his many injuries. A few small bruises and lacerations, a nasty burn across his left shoulder, and the worst seemed to be the deep chunk of flesh missing from his left thigh; the surrounding area was thick with deep red blood. "That's gonna leave a mark."

"You need a Healer." Ginny stated.

To her surprise, he simply pulled his wand from his tattered pocket and began to trace it over his wounds. Ginny stared on in amazement as the boy healed himself with spells, performing intricate, complex magic with whispered words and subtle gestured. The blood cleared away, the bruises faded, and broken flesh began to knit together, regrow, renew. Within five minutes, the only hint at all that there had been damage to the boy was the barest tint of pink of the skin that could be seen through the tears in the fabric. A thought occurred to Ginny.

"You're doing magic."

Harry shrugged and pocketed his wand. "Your point?"

"Wont the Ministry know?"

"Nope." Harry said simply, making no attempt to offer further explanation. He stood up with a wince – he was still in pain and the healed wounds tender – and patted himself down. He scrutinised Ginny, then the Burrow and then Ginny again. "Where's the family?"

"Out?"

"So just you then?" Stating the obvious much?

"That's right."

Then Harry said something unexpected. "Is that why you're scared?"

Ginny scowled. "The hell are you talking about, Potter?"

Harry moved closer to her, and stared deeply at her. "Your eyes. They're scared. Not of me 'cause then your wand wouldn't be pointed at the ground. You keep glancing towards the house so it's probably something in there. Not frequent enough for it to be an immediate danger and any Death Eater would've investigated himself. So, what's wrong?"

Ginny stared at him disbelievingly as his face softened into a placating smile. Despite herself, she told him. "I've been having…bad dreams lately."

To her surprise, he didn't scoff, or laugh and make fun of her. He simply raised his eyebrow. "Of the Chamber?"

"Yeah." She admitted.

"And you don't know why they're back again?"

"Yes." Ginny nodded. "I've put it all behind me, but the dreams just keep coming. I've tried Dreamless Sleep Potion but it doesn't work."

"Okay." Harry nodded thoughtfully. "And it started when you came back from Hogwarts?"

"Yes." Ginny said in surprise. "How did you know?"

"Because I think there's an unwelcome visitor in your room." Harry informed her gravely.

"What kind of visitor?" Ginny asked inquisitively.

Harry didn't answer. Instead he simply began to march towards the Burrow with a gait born of determination and confidence. He pushed the back door open and swaggered in. Ginny scurried after him, wand still drawn in the case of any funny business. Harry had a strong reputation within Hogwarts, if not the Wizarding World proper. He had intelligence beyond measure, second only to his own brother and Hermione Granger in their year-group; he had been the Ravenclaw Seeker since second year, and according to the teachers, held a spark for mischief to match Fred and George. For all intents and purposes, he could have been in the echelon of the popular, but instead he hid away in unknown corners of Hogwarts Castle and secluded himself from others with a veil of eccentricity and cool indifference. He was hardly seen at mealtimes, and the school rumour mill even went as far to say that he left the school grounds on a regular basis. From what little Ginny had seen of him in school, he held a similar air to Dumbledore; he just seemed to _know_ everything, couldn't be outsmarted. Fred and George hadn't even managed to prank him once. He certainly made for an interesting antithesis to his brother Jack. His skills and knowledge were more battle-oriented. He had regular training periods with his father and the aurors, and was frequently involved in dangerous adventures. In her first-year, he had stopped a kidnapping attempt, and only a few months ago managed to unravel a plot to assassinate several high-ranking Ministry members at the hands of a Death Eater cell. And then there was the rumour that he had fought Voldemort himself the night of his resurrection. Oh yes, the Potter twins made for an interesting pair to be sure. There was a constant campaign to get them to duel, but it had never seen much success. It was something Ginny definitely wanted to see.

Ginny entered the kitchen. Harry was stood in the dining area, examining the family clock with interest – it didn't tell time, but each of the fingers was adorned with a family member and it tracked where they were; _Home_, _Work_, and at dreaded 12 o'clock, _Mortal Peril_ – when Ginny entered he looked up and asked: "Which room is yours?"

"Third floor, on the right." Ginny answered promptly. Part of her was cautious about letting the boy run about freely in her home, but curiosity had beaten sensibility and she was content to follow him up the stairs. If he took any notice of the somewhat impoverished surroundings, he didn't show it. Eventually he finished ascending the creaking stairs and stood on the floor outside her room. To her mild amusement, he made no attempt to enter, instead standing outside wringing his hands awkwardly. "You can go in, Harry."

Harry nodded, and reached out to turn the knob before pushing the door open slowly to reveal her room – dark pink walls, a dresser, Hollyhead Harpies bedspread and posters along with various other memorabilia. The left wall had a photograph-board beneath the window. Harry took it all in at a glance.

Ginny looked at him curiously. "Is there something in here?"

Harry nodded absentmindedly, wand drawn and grasped loosely in his hand. "Something."

Harry closed his eyes and blew out a long, steady breath. He opened his eyes again, and stared blankly at the wall ahead of him, twitching occasionally. Ginny watched with interest as his eyes eventually shifted towards a section of wall, right next to the dresser. He began to approach it, and knelt down. Gently tracing his wand across it, "Gotcha. This wall's hollow, yes?"

"Er, yeah. I think."

Harry nodded, and flicked his wand. A hot blue light appeared, not unlike the muggle blowtorch her father had nearly set the kitchen on fire with once. Wordlessly, he began to cut out a section of the wall, moving his wand up, right, down, then across again in a rectangular motion. He pulled the rectangle away and smiled. "There we go. Knew it."

Ginny inched forward. "What is it?"

Harry extinguished his wand and beckoned her closer. In the gap there was a creature not unlike a little podgy monkey. It was curled up in a foetal position, sleeping in a nest of cobwebs and shed hair. It certainly wasn't cute, but it didn't seem particularly dangerous either. Harry began to explain. "It's called a _mare_."

"And it was causing me to dream about the chamber?"

"Basically. It's where the term '_nightmare_' originates from. It's a creature that lives off emotional residue; shacks up in a home where an occupant has had some kind of traumatic experience and releases special pheromones into the air which cause people to remember the events in various ways – in your case dreams of the Chamber." Harry told her mildly. "Completely harmless, technically speaking. Can't hurt a fly."

"So what do I do with it?" Ginny asked, eying it dubiously. "I'm not dealing with those dreams any longer than I have to."

Harry nodded in understanding. "Not to worry; the Department of Magical Pest and Abandoned Creature Regulation has a twenty-four hour office for these types of things."

He pulled down some of Ginny's parchment and a quill from its ink pot and scribbled a quick note, before conjuring a sealable cardboard box. Then, he simply used magic to levitate the _mare_ – nest and all – into the box, before closing it. Then he simply transformed it into a portkey, and off it went. "Job done."

"That's it?" Ginny said surprised. It seemed too…simple.

"That's it." Harry confirmed. "No more bad dreams, theoretically."

"Well…thank you." Ginny smiled appreciatively. "I don't really know what to say, other than that."

"How about 'would you like some Hot Chocolate?'" Harry offered in amusement.

Ginny grinned. "Deal. And you can tell me how the hell you ended up in my back garden."

* * *

Ginny shook her head in disbelief. "Nope, don't buy it."

I chuckle in amusement and take a drink of my steaming hot beverage. What was there to not believe? I do this sort of shit all the time. Of course, few actually knew about that. There was a lot of things people didn't know about me. I think they're still trying to figure out where I disappeared to last Christmas, or how I seem to have money despite not accessing the Potter family coffers at Gringotts. Funny how the two were quite connected.

That's a story for another time though.

"Well, tis the truth."

"I'm sure." Ginny drawled, before taking a sip of her own. She looked as if a whole weight had been lifted from her shoulders; her chocolate eyes were far brighter than before and she seemed to carry an air of overt cheerfulness. She leaned forward slightly. "Y'know, in all the years we've been at school together this is the most we've talked."

I nodded in agreement. "Actually, it's more than I've talked to with the majority of the school…"

"Why is that?" Ginny prodded. "Why do you try to hide from everyone?"

I shrug and sigh. "It's easier that way."

"Easier?"

I scowl. "People just hold you back."

Ginny snorted and eyed me with interest. "Now, y'see, I'd believe that, except that you don't actually feel that way. You wouldn't have helped me – wouldn't have noticed- if you did."

I cock and eyebrow and lean forward. "You think you know me rather well, Miss Weasley."

"I think I do, Mister Potter." Ginny smirked.

Despite myself, I laughed. "Y'know, I think this might be the start of a wonderful friendship."

* * *

_**A/N**__: As always, read, review and make suggestions. Next story to updated should be Another Time, Another War._

_Peace out._


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